


Discipleship

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 22:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of his king, Theon finds another lord to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discipleship

They rarely speak, and Theon does not question his situation. Yet there are times when he is sent for and Roose Bolton asks him strange questions about Winterfell, a place that now seems like nothing more than a half-remembered dream, and about Robb, his tactics, battle plans left unfulfilled, things that are also, like the halls of his former home-that-was-not, fading from his memory. They have been replaced by a gleaming smile, and a blade that shines just as terribly in a dark cell, of hunger and fear and pain, of a frantic chase, and of a respite from an unlikely source, the man who sits before him waiting patiently for him to comply. But he tries, wishing to please his lord, reminding himself that despite his son’s proclivities, despite the dark history of his people, Roose Bolton had always bent the knee to the Starks, had always served his liege lord with silent competence and tacit agreement. 

Tonight he asks about the Reeds and the other crannogmen, where they concealed themselves in the marshes and bogs, and the nature of the poison they used on their clever weapons, but it all blurs together and Theon cannot continue with his recitation. He was never privy to real detail; that had been saved for Lady Catelyn, for seasoned warriors like the Greatjon or Rickard Karstark, or even Lord Bolton who sits across from him, patiently waiting. 

“Forgive me, my lord,” he murmurs, draining the last of his wine, “for I am weary and I tire easily these days.” He smiles ingratiatingly at Roose Bolton, hating himself for plying courtesies on someone so unaffected by flattery, but courtesy is a lesson that he has been taught at the Dreadfort, both harshly and civilly, and it now comes naturally. He swallows the old urge to boast and jape and mock, realizing when he observes Bolton in council, how a mere glance or a subtle frown conveys far more meaning and forces far more respect than his old ways. 

“And it is a difficult subject, I am sure,” Bolton says. “After all, considering the circumstances surrounding his death, and the tragedy so fresh before us…it is still an open wound.” 

Theon nods. 

“And you were so close to his grace, were you not?” 

“I loved him…how could I not? He was my brother.” But the way that Theon’s eyes light anywhere but his lord’s face, and the way that his cheeks redden betray him, as does the tear that threatens to spill down his cheek. There are things that he will never share, remembrances of snarky asides as they lay together in secret after the act, of Robb’s hands and mouth and the way his body tensed and shuddered under their touch, of secrets whispered late at night, confidences too close for this place with its pink banners and tapestries laden with battles and death. He sighs, preparing for dismissal, for retribution, for some punishment fitting his failure to satisfy Lord Roose’s demands. 

But Bolton does not speak. His face conceals everything, or nothing, for perhaps, his thoughts, like his emotions, have been drained from him along with his rumored bad blood. He only watches as Theon draws in shaky breaths, struggling to gain control of himself once more. 

He looks up though, when a cold hand brushes his fingers, and the urge to draw them away, to hide them, both the spaces between where there is a lack, and the whole ones. 

“I was with him when he died,” Bolton whispers, and Theon smiles, despite himself, imagining that this odd man, with his cold queer ways, had given some comfort to his king before the life drained from his body. He knows that tomorrow he will remember more, will help his lord’s cause in his small way, will serve, will fit, will satisfy.


End file.
